Starf*cker: a Meme-oir (37 page)

Chexy, having been in the biz and having already encountered the likes of Ethel Merman and Rudy Vallée in his youth, is completely uninterested in photo ops and autographs, so he made a perfect sidekick, dutifully filming and photographing my interactions with the stars of yesteryear, holding my bag, making sure I was hydrated and occasionally providing invaluable information. (“That picture you have of the guy from
Valley Girl
isn’t the guy from
Valley Girl
.”)

He also became a celebrity in his own right among the group of gays I attended the shows with, especially Rich, a salt-and-pepper-haired postal employee from New Jersey who would fly anywhere to meet anyone from
Dynasty
or
Dallas
,
or almost any horror film. We met standing in line for Martin Landau, a line that took something like three hours to resolve. I’d been pushing Chexy to sit at a table himself, considering the wattage of some of the stars at these shows. Chexy thought that was absurd. When Rich figured out Chexy had been in movies, he casually asked which ones, turning redder than the blood in
Friday the 13th
upon hearing that Chexy was the zombie from
Night of the Comet
, one of his favorite movies. My companion did a (free) signing and pic-with on the spot, but I never did convince him to sit at a table; sure, Terry Moore and Morgan Fairchild did it, but Chexy had more pride than they did, maybe because he’d only been an actor for a few years and had abandoned ship before the need for approval had taken hold at the genetic level.

Just like Lamparski’s books, there is much to be learned from attending an autograph show, even if you’re not blessed with your own personal Chexy to help you out and to impress your new friends.

Never pose with a guy who’s taller or better-hung than you are.

This piece of advice came to me from Gerard Christopher, a former model and star of the short-lived ‘80s/’90s TV series
Superboy,
who was still stunningly handsome and überfit at 53 when I met him at his table. Even though I’d never seen his series, I’m a fan of attractive men, so I wasn’t about to miss a chance to get a sexy photo signed by a person who used to make his living in swimsuits and then, later, in tights.

As I approached, I saw some middle-aged queens clucking over a stash of revealing photos of Gerard, but didn’t see any of them for sale on his table. Turned out they’d been brought in by the fans. Gerard said he’d thought this particular convention wouldn’t have many fans seeking his skin shots and that he only had one photo “like that” in the car. Mock-bossily, I demanded he go out immediately and get it for me.

Which he, playing along, did.

In the photo, he lies on his back in a leopard Speedo, one arm over his head, the expression on his face seeming to call out, “Man, my own armpit smells fantastic!” He teased that he was going to write something like, “Matt, you
changed
me…” but I was pushing for the more direct, “Thank you for teaching me how to take it.”

We settled on, “Great meeting you.”

Gerard was a good sport, having modeled for handsy gay photographers forever (the most famous one of all time, he noted, was a horror), but definitely had to work hard for his $20. I later brought my entire gay posse over and informed him that we wanted a shirtless photo op.

We were reasonable: “Would you be more comfortable outside or in the men’s room?”

Gerard laughed, saying he would do it if
we
dropped
our
pants. In hindsight, not a wise demand. As our pants started down, he backed off, saying instead that he wouldn’t pose with anyone taller or more well-hung. Brian, one of my autograph-show pals, is about 6’4” (he physically picked Dean Cain up for a photo op at the same show), so there went at least part of that advice.

I’m not sure if any or all of us are better hung than he is, but Gerard did the photo, keeping his shirt on. So this piece of advice is flexible.

After I posted video of the meeting, an irate woman wrote me to demand I take it down since she was visible in the background, as if anyone cared whether she lived or died when Gerard Christopher was in frame.

It’s okay if your daughter sees your dick.

Over 50, lithe
Blue Lagoon
heartthrob Christopher Atkins is still handsome, if leathery from a life spent worshiping the sun. We were introduced by a mutual friend, a wonderful man who owned a shop in which he sold movie-star photos for money but would probably give you a blowjob for free in the back. Gay businesses know how satisfy their customers.

My friend asked Christopher the question I was too shy to ask: “Where are the nudes?” Turns out he had a whole stash of full-frontals in a folder, he just hadn’t put them out yet. I selected an arched-back shot by Greg Gorman taken before he was
the
Greg Gorman, and paid Christopher’s helper—his 25-year-old daughter, also an actress. Maybe she was simply
acting
comfortable as she handed me a photo of her dad’s wiener, but if so, the impassive pro deserves an Oscar.

That penis had brought her into this world, and it was still helping to provide for her.

Just because you’re paying a star, that doesn’t mean he or she won’t control your meeting.

Rip Taylor, 78, reacted with a dropped jaw when I presented him with a vintage ‘50s image from his nightclub act. “That’s my
real hair!”
he marveled. Like many stars will do when confronted with a never-before-seen picture, he refused to sign it until I’d had it scanned
and
he’d taken a photo of the photo. After all that, he rudely told me, “Hurry up!” when I asked to pose with him. I guess that’s his
real attitude.

He later handed a friend of mine a puffy pink letter “I” and said, “Now you can say Rip Taylor gave you pink-eye!” This almost made up for the bum’s rush.

Incidentally, Rip was there with 52-year-old Johnny Whitaker from
Family Affair
, with whom he’d worked on the execrable
Sigmund and the Sea Monsters
, a show people my age remember fondly in spite of its aggressive stupidity. (Not hard to believe; eternally popular stuff like
The Brady Bunch
and
Gilligan’s Island
aren’t exactly brain food, either.) Johnny, a former druggie and now drug counselor, probably spends so much time answering questions and receiving belated condolences regarding the overdose death of his co-star Anissa Jones that he perked right up when I was more interested in what it had been like to work with the late, great character actress Mary Wickes. He proceeded to show us the various double-takes she’d taught him how to do. An oral history of facial comedy.

When I left, I almost forgot to pay him. “Don’t give it away!” I cautioned, to which Johnny slyly replied, “Oh, believe me, I have—
many
times.”

This allowed me to try out one of the double-takes he’d just demonstrated.

Just because stars have camp value, don’t expect them to be down with the gay thing.

I rather liked 70-year-old
Valley of the Dolls
actress Barbara Parkins (she exclaimed “boobies!” when I presented her with a cheesecake shot to sign), but it got uncomfortable when I asked about a lesbian-themed episode of
Hotel
she did with Carol Lynley. She looked at me blankly and asked, “What? A series called
Hotel
. No. I did
The Love Boat
…” Her memory jarred by the helpful gay at her side, she offered, “They wanted me to give her a kiss and I said, ‘No, I will not,’ because…that’s not what I would do.” But she compromised by agreeing to tweak Carol’s toes.

I’d previously met Lynley at the same show and while she had proudly recalled winning a gay award for her portrayal of said lesbian, she also felt the need to inform me, “Which is funny because…
I’m not gay.”

I guess she wouldn’t have gotten the acting award if she were.

Old people are thieves.

Probably not all of them, but 90-year-old
Perry Mason
vet Barbara Hale is. Or was she just an innocent bystander whose assistants did the dirty work? All I know is that when she cancelled a tandem appearance with her son, William
Greatest American Hero
Katt, at a show, I sent a unique, original glamour shot to her home with a request for her to sign it. Never got it back. At the next event, she showed up—and had fresh copies of that photo for sale on her table. I’m quite certain it wasn’t a shot she’d had lying around. But I guess I’ll never know if she did it or if someone opening her mail had the inspiration. It’s a case for…”Perry Mason”. She was so salty and funny and warm I could never press charges anyway.

I guess I’ll be looking for the fabulous photo I sent to Dorothy Malone in her eventual estate sale.

Nudity is expensive.

Just about every famous woman has done
Playboy
at some point, and they all want
twice
as much as what they usually charge if you ask them to sign their tits, let alone their bush.
Mission: Impossible
stud Peter Lupus, a bodybuilder, had done
Playgirl
in the ‘70s. The tough-as-nails old-timer who was sitting with Lupus, a still vibrant, 79-year-old piece of ass, bluntly told me the naked centerfold of Lupus that I’d brought along with me would cost me $40, a rate at which I could probably have hired an actual bodybuilder to get naked in front of me in real-time.

I was worried that Michael Paré, indelibly erotic in
Eddie and the Cruisers
(1983), would be upset when I asked him to sign a shirtless photo from a Japanese book devoted to his hotness. Imagine my surprise when I got up to his table and found a stack of grainy photos showing the one frame from his forgotten flick
Bad Moon
in which you could see the base of his penis and all of his pubic hair.

It’s not as impossible as you might think to be a literal starfucker at these shows.

Not that I had a shot with any of them, but the sexiest show I ever attended had no less than Maxwell Caulfield (who seemed embarrassed when shown crisp color portraits of his twenty-year-old self spreading his legs and flexing his quads in barely-there swim trunks), Gregory Harrison (who turned his still-bubbly backside to the camera when posing with me because “this is my good side”), Adrian Paul, Antonio Sab
à
to Jr., Al Corley from
Dynasty
(he seemed to be in physical pain when I broke out a German copy of his debut CD), John Schneider (whose tree-trunk biceps were being used to hawk some kind of energy juice, a big no-no on site), Billy Zane (I’d have gladly gone down with him), and Casper Van Dien.

The point is that as weird as the shows can be, there is also an undercurrent of sexuality. You’re there to see half the stars out in a twisted mission to recreate your childhood and the other half in a twisted mission to recreate your horny teen years.

Most of the fans who attend these shows are human versions of Mr. Potato Head, so if you show up looking…reasonable…you might arouse the interest of a closeted star you wanted to fuck when he was 25 and probably wouldn’t turn down now that he’s 55. This also applies to some of those who are 85.

Blond hottie Mark Patton of
A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy’s Revenge
fame flirtily wrote on my photo, “He’s inside me.” That was a line from the movie. But
still.

I think the closest I came to hooking up at an autograph show was at Chiller Theater, a horror convention, when a fiftysomething 1970s star (not to be too mysterious) from a kid’s show reacted very favorably to my exclamation that he was one of the first men I thought about sexually as an adolescent. He grinned warmly and said he thought that was great that I knew so young and then gave me eye contact so intense it would have been censored on Showtime. He asked me if I were staying in the hotel overnight—all of this in front of a friend I was with and in front of his assigned helper.
Gulp!
When I blogged about this, a reader wrote me immediately to say he’d once seen the same star biking past and had blurted out, “Nice ass!” The star had screeched to a halt and pedaled back for an in-depth conversation.

But the ultimate one that got away wasn’t even a star I’d ever heard of until I met him. A beautiful soap hunk of about 40, he had such an incredible butt I took its portrait surreptitiously. He had a “girlfriend” with him but spent an inordinate amount of time squatting in front of her table, crescent-mooning the hall and nearly burning out my iPhone’s camera. After our pleasant interaction, during which Chexy had indiscreetly asked for front-and-back pic-withs, I bumped into him in the men’s room, where he got my attention at the sink and asked, “Are you staying in the hotel tonight?” This seems to be the code for, “You’re less scary than the fan who runs around in face paint and waving a
Star Trek
flag—wanna do it?”

But being common-law-married then and shy and don’t forget incredibly stupid, I demurred. So I’ll never know if, when you start to have steamy, torrid sex with a soap actor, the scenes fades to waves on a beach as romantic music cues up.